


1919

by Raven (singlecrow)



Category: Lynes and Mathey Series - Amy Griswold & Melissa Scott
Genre: Future Fic, Gen, M/M, Misses Clause Challenge, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 13:50:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2814245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singlecrow/pseuds/Raven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Metaphysicians from the Commons had thought only of the defence of the realm, and not of the young girls hiding from the Zeppelins and teaching one another the grammar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1919

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jain/gifts).



"I want you to make it," said the girl, clear and determined, "that he never comes near me again."

Cordelia looked around at the room, somewhere on top of a fishmonger's near Primrose Hill, whitewashed rather than painted, furniture worn at the corners, but clean: not a speck of dust and every scrap of sunlight possible let in through the shutters. The girl sat on the edge of her chair, legs apart under her skirt as though daring Cordelia to think the worst of her.

"A little too late for that, I would have thought," she commented, and the girl visibly bristled, then softened when she caught sight of Cordelia's smile.

"For this one," she said, putting a hand on her belly, "but not for the next. Which there won't be."

Cordelia nodded. "What's your name? Your, er, landlady, didn't say." She motioned at the floor to indicate the room downstairs, vaguely; the whole affair was vague. The landlady had been the friend of a sister of a woman who had attended a lecture Cordelia had given at the London School of Metaphysics For Women, and Cordelia suspected 'landlady' was an arch descriptor for the relationship, in any case. It made no odds.

"Helen," said the girl, and Cordelia made a mental note.

"Helen," she said, firmly. "Well, you know it doesn't work like that."

Because that was the strange thing, these days: Helen, and all the girls like her, who had read a little metaphysics in their schools or with their governesses, and then a great deal more, off Kitchener's posters: "Any Light Could Bring Down a Bomb: Learn To Bring Darkness" – and metaphysicians from the Commons had thought only of the defence of the realm, and not of the young girls hiding from the Zeppelins and teaching one another the grammar. Helen held Cordelia's gaze. "There's something you could do," she said, clear and bright, "or you wouldn't have come."

Cordelia tilted her head and considered. "Not yet. it's not wise to do anything just now. Because of the baby, you know." She kept her voice firm and matter-of-fact; the girl seemed a little comforted by it. "But just as soon as it comes, you let me know. It's not" – she paused a moment, considering how to phrase it – "easy, to do what you're asking. But I can make it so there won't be another. Do you understand?"

Helen took a moment, but she nodded. Cordelia picked up her umbrella and walked around the room for a moment, taking in the picture on the mantelpiece of the young man in uniform, sepia-toned with a hat half-tipped over his face so it was difficult to make out his eyes. "Is this him?"

Helen nodded again. "He was different, when he came back."

Cordelia gave her a careful smile. "One of my closest friends, also – was changed, when he returned."

"Not so much," Helen said, bluntly, "if you're still friends." She paused. "How much do I, ah…"

She got up, ponderously, and picked a pocketbook off the dresser; Cordelia waved her hand. "Time enough for that, when I come back. You'll let me know."

"I will," she said, "and, thank you, Miss Frost" – and Cordelia waved her away again, offering an arm to help her get settled back in her chair.

"You know," Helen said, suddenly, "I'd have liked to do what you do. No kids, no blokes. Just getting girls like me" – she gave Cordelia a wry grin, and a glimpse of what she might have been like, before – "out of trouble."

Cordelia said, very gently, "You're very young, yet" – before picking up her coat and hat, and descending the spiral staircase. As she was about to close the front door behind her, she heard the landlady running up the steps, calling out Helen's name with concern and urgency and no little sweetness. Cordelia left them to it.

Her next appointment was up on the Holloway Road – a girl with a similar, not identical problem; Cordelia was carrying pennyroyal and rue for a cantrip – and the Underground platforms, once she reached them, were confused and chaotic, with police and ticket inspectors officiously moving along a crowd of interested onlookers. "Nothing to see here," the nearest constable said as Cordelia pushed her way closer, and she had been considering telling him that the failure in the lights was metaphysical, not mechanical – she recognised the flicker, as _bring light_ caught on _less smoke_ , and dimmed the lamps – but the policeman said, "Just go on down and take your train, ma'am", and she made a note, and moved on. When she reached the little upstairs room by the railway bridge, the girl was dubious, then grateful, then tearful, and Cordelia left her a card with the enchantment, a sealed glass bottle with the herbs, and her own handkerchief. 

On her way back to the Commons from Euston, she might have whistled, were it ladylike, and there was a spring in her step as she stepped into the courtyard, bright with the coming of spring. And it would have been a good and uncomplicated morning's work, Cordelia was thinking as she hung up her coat and hat, if it had not at that point become abundantly clear that she was not the only person in the room.

"Excuse me, sir" – Cordelia gave up on nicety for the moment; the thing was so unexpected, this space so usually sacrosanct to its owners – "who are you?"

A gentleman with beetling eyebrows and two handfuls of metaphysical textbooks looked down at her, peering over half-moon spectacles. "Who am I? Who are _you_?"

"Miss Cordelia Frost," Cordelia said, with some asperity.

"Cordelia Frost?" The old gentleman glared, pushing his spectacles back up his nose for the better effect. "You're Mathey's girl, what?"

"I shall be forty-four years old this coming Tuesday, sir," Cordelia said, primly, taking several steps backwards. "I suggest you consult an oculist."

"An _oculist_?" shouted the stranger, gesturing wildly, and Cordelia glanced around the room with some consternation: although the layout of furniture was right, the contents of the shelves were not, and there ought – oh, dear – to be another coat on that hook, and a better view of the courtyard, full of metaphysicians flocking like ravens.

"Perhaps," she said, conciliatory, "I should consult one myself" – and from safely outside the door, shouted, "I apologise unreservedly!" and retraced her steps. When she came to rest outside the right wooden door with its chipped knocker, it struck her why she had blithely walked straight past. 

"Your plaque has gone," she called, setting down her hat and coat for the second time, and at first there was no answer, then the now-familiar, irregular _tap-tap_ of his cane.

"I know," Ned said, looking faintly embarrassed, appearing from the internal door. "It's just come from the engravers. Julian was kind enough to collect it." He was unwrapping it from the paper as he spoke, holding it up to catch the light. "What do you think?"

Cordelia looked up. It shone – clearly the engraver had taken the opportunity to polish it thoroughly – and showed no sign of where the original lettering had been scoured and replaced. _Mathey and Frost_ , it read, in neat capital letters.

"Goodness," she said, stepping forwards to take a closer look. "How… remarkable, to see it in print like that."

"It's good metaphysical practice," Ned murmured, "to name things correctly."

"I had an elderly aunt as a child," Cordelia said, suddenly. "She never married. Used to react to unexpected news with 'Goodness!' and demands for sal volatile. I suppose we all become who we're meant to be, in the end."

Ned half-smiled, and gestured at the doorway. "Shall I hang it up?"

"Yes." Cordelia smiled back. "Yes. I, ah. Mr Mathey…"

"Ned."

"At this particular moment," Cordelia said, "Mr Mathey. Thank you."

"Thank you, Miss Frost." Ned nodded at her workbench, covered in her papers and wand and a small jewellery box she had been stripping of a curse. "I won't say something facile and inappropriate, like _welcome aboard_."

"And I won't say, _you didn't have to do it_." Cordelia sat down on the edge of her chair. "It's been a long enough time coming."

Ned nodded again, and gave her another small, halfway-there smile. Moving slowly, he mounted the plaque on the hook, and came back to sit down heavily on his own chair. "Perhaps," he said, resting the cane against the other workbench, "it took more than merely time."

She held his gaze for a moment; there was nothing else, to fill that silence. 

"I still think," said a voice from the other door, "it should have been Mathey, Frost and Lynes."

"Oh, indeed?" Cordelia pulled her notes from the morning and placed them on her bench. "And just what assistance have you been to the great metaphysical enterprise, Mr Lynes?"

"Oh, none at all," Lynes said, cheerfully, stepping into the room. "Not a whit, I quite acknowledge it. But that hasn't stopped Ned."

Surprising herself, Cordelia laughed aloud. "I commend your logic, Mr Lynes."

"I knew you'd see it my way." Lynes leaned against the doorway and began – needlessly – polishing the plaque. "Ned, are you fit for human company today? If so, it's time for lunch."

Ned waved a lazy hand; his coat draped itself over his arm of its own accord, having drifted across from the other side of the room.

"Marvellous." Lynes rubbed his hands together. "You too, Miss Frost. Would Christie's suit?"

"Oh, I don't know," Cordelia said, feeling the smile lingering on her lips. "The two of you, the new professional venture – won't people talk?"

"What about, Miss Frost? I lose track." Lynes held out an arm for Ned to take, and passed his cane into his hand. "After all, there are so many reasons."

"Quite," Cordelia said, laughing a little. As they went out into the corridor, she took the keys from the hook and locked the door behind them, her eyes lingering on the new plaque.

"I could put a permanent enchantment on it," Ned said, softly, by her side. "To keep it clean."

"You could," Cordelia said, and then, wickedly: "You're much better at those little household things."

"But perhaps," Ned said, with an amused glance at her, "we should let it get dusty. Let it wear itself in."

"Yes," Cordelia said, "yes, of course." And outside in the courtyard, breathing the air astringent with herbs, she remembered something else. "I was up in Camden this morning."

"Oh, yes," Ned said, "I meant to ask you about that."

Cordelia was leading the way along the cobbled path, listening for the sound of his footsteps behind her. "It was one of the ones I can't tell you about, I'm afraid," she said. "But I did notice something interesting on the Underground on the way back. I think that if we should submit a tender to adjust the metaphysical lighting on the Hampstead Tube, it may not go amiss. "

"We could," Ned said, thoughtfully. "Perhaps we can draft something up this afternoon, maybe incorporate something to improve the ventilation – Julian, any thoughts on lighting? Of course not, it's of practical use."

"Ned, you wound me." Lynes grinned; Cordelia found herself less able to keep her countenance, than she had been in previous years. 

"Could we include some means of maintenance at a distance, do you think? So workers don't have to go down into the tunnels every time a lamp blows out."

"I think so," Cordelia said, warming to the topic as they crossed the gardens, she and Lynes careful to keep pace with Ned. "Perhaps – something about unravelling" – she had a distinct sense of fitting into an old, familiar rhythm – "and light" – _tap_ , _tap_ , _tap_ – "and… what else?"

"Endurance," Ned said, with difficulty.

"You know," Cordelia said, quietly, stopping at the centre of the garden, the paths radiating from her feet towards the cardinal points, "they won't take the tender from me. Not without your name, too."

Ned bowed his head. "I know. I'm sorry." 

"Endurance," she repeated, and he breathed, and they kept on going. Lynes was waiting for them a few steps along, his eyes soft on Ned; outside on the street, the sun was still shining, bright and high.


End file.
